So I’m On Vacation…


….which means I haven’t had much to say lately. Not because I’ve been on vacation, I just got here yesterday. No, I have had little to say on the ol’ bloggie lately simply because I was getting ready for the trip. Traveling is difficult even on your own.

So I’m on vacation. Those of you that have been around for a while know that I’m from Chicago. I live in California now, though (unfortunately), so typically vacations involve the Windy City. Last year we came out for a couple weeks, this year we’re spending a whole month here.

Let’s hope next time it’s permanent.

So far I have learned a few things.


#1 A Lot of People Are Obnoxious

It doesn’t say “surviving on cynicism and misanthropy” in the banner of this website for nothing: I think a lot of people are obnoxious. I’m probably more obnoxious than any of them, but that’s another blog post altogether.

We took the train again with my dad across the country, and while I had learned some lessons the last time (in terms of making it a little more comfortable for us), what I hadn’t learned was how to avoid the obnoxious people. Even the car attendant was getting on my nerves at a certain point, and it was her job to be my BFF.

The worst was on the one night that we went up to the dining car to actually dine. Typically we just stay in the room and have it delivered, or eat our own food. Stupidly I suggested we go on the first night, though, and we were seated next to the most obnoxious woman EVER.

“Is there a tilapia on this menu? There’s supposed to be a fish. This isn’t right.”

“Are these mashed potatoes made with Idaho potatoes? Instant? This isn’t right.”

“It’s so cold in here, can you turn down the air? This isn’t right that it’s so cold in here.”

“You charge for wine? Oh that isn’t right. Are you sure there is not tilapia available?”

“Arnold, what was the problem in the baaaaaaathrooooooom? You couldn’t get it out? Oh that isn’t right.”

#2 Hotels Are A Reminder That Not Everyone Practices Effective Family Planning


Last night my cousin and I were talking about the natural, Catholic family planning course she and her fiance had to take (their wedding is one of the reasons we are in town). As if her description of the Catholic-approved “birth control” (if you can call it that) methods weren’t horrifying enough, I realized this morning that probably a lot more people practice it than you’d think.

How did I realize? If you know anything about the natural, Catholic-approved family planning “birth control,” you know that it doesn’t work. Everyone that uses it has a shit-ton of kids.

Each family I saw staying in our hotel has six or more children. One family had nine, and the mother was pregnant with the tenth. And while the children running around screaming is not noticeable while we are in our nice, relatively soundproof suite, the continental breakfast is a much different story.

It was like the state of nature with free Cheerios and waffles. Children were running around between tables, smacking the chairs and yelling “blah blah blah blah blah.”

Snot flowed everywhere.

Every thirty seconds a child would fall or trip or run into something or bite their tongue or smash their head into their cereal bowl and loud crying would commence.

All-the-while mine just sat there in horror. After about ten minutes I got a “can we go back to our room now?”

So that’s where we are. A lot of observations, and at the same time a lot of really loving being home. It should come as no surprise to all of you that I really dislike California. Sorry, it’s just the truth. I’m allergic to everything there. I think a lot of the people I have encountered are narcissistic, self-centered, overly-career focused a-holes.

And honestly, I just prefer the Midwest.

If it makes me a bad person to have a personal preference other than palm trees and beaches, well than so be it. All I know is that as our train rolled its way towards the Chicagoland area, the water towers and the rolling lands and the humidity that everyone complains about were so wonderfully “home” to me that I could taste it. It tasted like pizza and hot dogs and the White Sox and my childhood; my family, my friends, and everything I’ve always loved.

STFU Fridays: Dinner Next to A’holes

Kill me, faithful blog followers. Fucking kill me. Kill me by inserting some large stick up my asshole, weedling it up there as high as you can before turning and maneuvering it around, causing my internal organs to twist and bend until they get tied up; then take the stick out and leave me to wither away with my fucked up, knotted colon until excrement has no where to go but out my ears.

That would be better than the dinner next to the a’holes that I experienced today.

Let’s first pause to welcome all the newbies hanging around the ol’ B(itch)Log these days. My name is Heather. People call me a B(itch). Sometimes I swear a lot; sometimes I am really serious. This is supposed to be a mom blog, but I usually talk about anything that is either funny and/or annoying and/or about my miserable life and/or filled with stupidity (and possibly all of the above). In real life (if there is such a thing), I’m a homeschooling, stay at home mom and full time writer, who is really – and truly – the nicest person you will ever meet.

We have here a fun, little theme for Fridays. Shut the Fuck Up Fridays is what I like to call them. While I swear and act crass a lot, STFU Fridays go above and beyond anything you’ve ever experienced before in the “foul-mouthed bitch” department. So welcome to my blog, and if you don’t like it … well, shut the fuck up (Fridays).

So back to the a’holes.


We went out to dinner with my dad tonight. He’s the guy shoveling food down his throat in the red sweatshirt. As we were walking in I noticed that we were being sat down next to those people sitting behind him. See them? There were actually five: a husband and wife, their nappy-headed bitch of a kid, and the husband’s parents. The nappy-headed bitch of a kid is in 5th grade. Her mom is a stay at home, like me. Her dad is a minister. The grandparents do I don’t know the fuck what, but they are the biggest dicks on the planet.

How do I know all of this? Because the husband (the dad, the minister) was my boss when I worked in pharmacy all those eons ago.

I won’t go into all of the injustices that went on when I worked under his reign. Well, not too much of it. I will say that he was the store manager and a pompous asshole from day one. I will further say that after four years of working tirelessly, sacrificing a lot for the job, and even letting myself be bullied into working for free a few times, he cut my hours to below 20, effectively causing me to lose my health insurance a whole year before I was planning on transferring to four year college (from community college) full time. I will say all of that. I will also describe for you faithful blog followers the time that the rancid bitch wife came in and told me that “one phone call, and your ass is grass if you don’t get my pills for me now.” Or the time that dear old dad back there screamed at me that I was being idiotic about his insurance problem, and that he should have me fired.

Nice people. I will never forget the rejoice we all felt when the douchecanoe of a store manager announced that he would be leaving to pursue his calling to the ministry.

So we went in and I noticed them, but I don’t believe they recognized me. I hope they didn’t. My hair is a different color now than when I worked under him; and it has been quite a few years. I also envision that they were so self-absorbed in their own arrogant and pompous goings-on that they hardly noticed anyone else in the entire restaurant.

There were quite a few times that I wanted to stand up, punch that nasty bitch in her crotch, and spit in the face of the ol’ “fuck you and your health insurance, Heather” manager.

“I Was Smarter Than You In 5th Grade”

One thing that guy did when he was the boss man was always put people down. He would make stupid jokes, that no one thought were funny; and they were always at the expense of other people. I remember one time in the break room he started cracking jokes about how annoying the sound of my voice was to him. Funny because at least my voice sounds appropriate to my gender, unlike him – who sounds like a five year old girl with a plugged nose and an occasional puberty-induced crackle. Fuck face.

Well the two of them (husband and wife) were showing off the bastard kid’s quote-unquote talents to the grandparents, but at every step they took it as an opportunity to take her down a notch. When talking about the science fair, dad said “but no one cares about plants…” (her project was about plant something or other). When she was talking about her math journal, the cunt with the red nails said “when I was in 5th grade, I was smarter than you though because I had no problem with fractions.”

Shut the fuck up, cunt.

“Catholics Worship Priests Instead of God”

Now apparently that little 5th grader is more of a stupid fuck than I thought, though, because at some point in their loud ass fucking conversation (so loud that all of the waitstaff and bus boys that came over to talk to us – as regulars – mentioned that they were sorry we got stuck by those overbearing dicks), the four adults had to explain to her what a Catholic is.

Here was how the grand tee-ton (the one who told me that I was an idiot and that he could have me fired since his son was the all-powerful minimum wage store manager) laid it out: “you see, Catholics worship their priests instead of God.” Nappy-headed 5th grader I previously felt sorry for went on to respond “that’s stupid. Catholics are stupid. Catholics are stupid and bad.”

Sadly, that poor girl is going to turn out to be just like her nasty parents, and even worse grandparents. Catholics worship priests about as much as I enjoy cooking. She too needed to shut the fuck up.

By the time the meal was over, I was about ready to go home and rip up my pharmacy technician’s license. I renew it every year just as a fall back; you know, in case my husband gets laid off or I decide to finally stop tolerating his shit and send him packing. Why the fuck would I want to go back to that, though? Not that it would be the same manager – he’s clearly moved on to greener, more shit-filled, pastures; but that was really just a microcosm of the shit I had to deal with working in the pharmacy. At this point I wouldn’t tolerate it. I would be fired in about a day because every other thing out of my mouth would be, simply stated: oh, just shut the fuck up!

Trials and Tribulations of My Trailer Trash Mom’s Family


So we went to my grandmother’s 85th birthday party yesterday. It was at the assisted living facility she and my grandfather live in – near our place, so not out of the way or anything. I baked the cake; and ended up baking two cakes (one for the adults, one for the kids). These people are usually pretty up and down with their drama; although, over time I have come to give them the benefit of the doubt and think they are just coming from the position of what my Trailer Trash Mom lies to them about. Of course every time I give them an inch, they bite me in the ass for it – so maybe they are all of the same breed. Okay, they all wallow in hillbilly pig shit.

But let’s not wax philosophical about them today. Let’s talk about the Trailer Trash Momma Drama that went down at gammy’s party.

“Why Does [Poor] Nick have a film strip tattooed on his arm?”

My husband has a tattoo of a film strip on his right arm, owing much in part to the fact that he works in fucking film. He studied film in college, and has worked at a post production company for close to eight years, working in the editing and management side of the process.

For a brief time after college, my husband worked at Starbucks; although, for the entire time I’ve known him, he’s been in film. I have told my mother he works in film. My mother has seen him go to work. She has talked about the projects he does with him. She has even written down a goddamned TV show he was assistant editor on for my grandpa to watch.

But for some reason the following conversation happened between one of my cousin’s spouses and me yesterday:

“Heather, why does Nick have a film strip tattooed to his arm?”

“Because he works in film.”

“Nick works in film?”

“Yeah, he works in post production.”

“No, seriously? Your mom just told us recently that he works at Starbucks.”

This reminded me of the time we showed up to visit my grandfather at the hospital about a year ago and someone started yelling at me because my mother told them I had never really graduated from college.

For some unknown reason my Trailer Trash Mom seems to want everyone to think we are total fucking losers. I’m not saying that people who work at Starbucks are losers; quite the opposite, actually, they likely have way better benefits and job security than almost anyone in the film industry does.

But why always downplay our achievements like that? It’s a little weird.

The awkward speaker-phone phone call

Something my Trailer Trash Mom always does at a family party is call whatever family member is not present, put them on speaker-phone, then require everyone to yell “hello!!” to them.

The first time or two that she did it, it was cute. Now that it’s been ten years or so since my mom got a cell phone, and there have been countless family parties since, it’s gotten a little fucking annoying. Especially since now it always involves her hillbilly husband.

Yesterday was no exception. After walking around and sharing with everyone the many different stories about her husband’s cancerous mole on his face (the worst is the story about how the doctor supposedly showed him photos of what he would look like after the mole was removed – something doctors do not do – and claimed he would look ‘like a hideous freak of nature.’) … what does one say to the guy when he gets put on speaker phone and says “hello” to everyone?

I’m also a little frustrated right now with them because my mother was talking to him the other day and told him I got a job writing for a magazine. She detailed that it was a column about being a mom, and I heard his hillbilly asshole voice say loud and clear “what does she know about that?”

Bitch, unfriended

Towards the end of the event, I was sitting there talking to my grandma. It was legitimately 95 degrees in the room at this point, the assisted living facility having left the air conditioning off despite the unseasonably warm temperatures. They were finishing the gift exchanges and I just wanted to leave. Then my cousin’s bitch of a wife (who writes occasionally for some two-bit newspaper near where she lives) turned to me and started talking about her job.

These people have got to be the most narcissistic, self-centered people on the fucking planet. They never come to family events, ever. And while I don’t blame them, it isn’t to avoid the drama but because they legitimately believe they are better than everyone. It’s been so long that they had never met one of the children that was at yesterday’s party. She turns 6 years old next month.

(But of course everyone excuses their absences, while causing an unending series of drama if I ever miss an event…)

So she turns to me and she starts rambling on about her day job doing some marketing bullshit, and then she tells me she’s doing this article for the newspaper about wineries or something. Then she says someone suggested she quit her day job and become a full time blogger. She laughs, and then says “God, why would I want to become one of those losers?”


This bitch knows I write a blog. I don’t know what she knows about me beyond that, but she knows I write a blog. In fact, she is a Facebook friend.

Wait … make that was. Just a few days ago, I went on her Facebook and wished her a Happy Birthday. Sure, she’s a total bitch, but I’m still going to be cordial – something few of my Trailer Trash Mom’s family members seem to know the meaning of. Well, when I got home, I went to look on her Facebook and see just what “newspaper” she does these cutesy little articles for, only to learn that she had defriended me. Sometime between about five days ago when I wished her a happy birthday, and yesterday when she said she doesn’t want to be a loser blogger. Like those people (me).

Good riddance.

Well, happy birthday to my grandma! And may my Trailer Trash Mom’s family continue to wallow in their trailer trash pig shit they seem to wallow in most days of the year.

My Conversation With Non-Hottie Maintenance Man

Big sigh full of bullshit, faithful blog followers. Big sigh of bullshit.

So a few days ago we received a note on our front door. It read that the apartment complex is happy to announce they are participating in some energy efficiency program, and were therefore planning to come and install new lighting fixtures in all the units. I’m sure for all the go-green-love-the-Earth-hippies out there, you are patting your self-gratifying-selves on the backs right now in honor of another win for reducing humanity’s carbon footprint. Hip-hip-motherfucking-hooray for you guys.

Okay that was a little mean and I really and truly have no problem with being environmentally friendly. I just resent how much it costs to do right by the world. Obviously, my only response to this note from the apartment complex management was not a jump for joy in honor of saving the world, but rather the simple question: how much is this going to cost me?

I’m a little done with unforeseen costs from this place. Between raising our rents, which I am still not comfortable agreeing to (despite how many times my husband says he’s tired of moving), and our ever-rising utility bills, I was already annoyed. Then my shit started getting stolen off the front porch. So I called the management, and they in fact said that the electric bill would probably go up a little from this new lighting fixture, but these lights are saving the planet.

Doesn’t make a damn bit of sense to me, either.

So the guy came over this morning to install the new fixture. Let me lay out the scenario.

It was morning(ish). I was tired. I have PMS. I still have a cold. And my allergies are totally off the hook too. I was also super depressed this morning, and by super depressed I don’t just mean “down” I mean I had a problem getting out of bed (but that’s another story and I’m not getting into that because this is a funny blog).

So when I got out of the shower, I was kind of lagging and I put on my robe because I knew this guy was coming over to put in the new light fixture between the hours of 9:00 am and 5:00 pm. I knew it was not going to be Hottie Maintenance Man because the note said they were independent contractors coming to do this work. So I didn’t much give a shit how I looked.

I have three different robes. One is pink and short, and my lady parts can be seen if I bend over too far.If Hottie Maintenance Man were coming over, I’d wear that one. One is red and I’ve had it forever, so long I don’t even remember when or where I got it. It’s also from my smaller-chested days, so sometimes the girls will arbitrarily flop out of them for no apparent reason. Then there is my purple one that fits properly and goes all the way to my feet. A full body robe.

This is the one I chose to wear while I finished getting ready and waited for the guy to come.

While putting on my makeup, the doorbell rang and after only a few seconds of not having answered it, the guy started fucking pounding on the door with his fist. I can’t stand it when people do this; as if I’m supposed to just be standing behind the door all day waiting for you to grace me with your presence.

I answered the door and he was a gargoyle.

I don’t mean to be a dick. I mean, it’s National No-Bullying Month and I do not, under any circumstance, want to judge others for the way that they look.

But allow me to anyway, simply because he offended me. This guy clearly hadn’t even showered today, which was evident by how badly he smelled and the green in his teeth. Standing at my door was this dude, his belly hanging out of the bottom of his stained polo shirt that was just about as green as his teeth. He was standing there with a ladder and a shitty look on his face.

He looked me up and down – up and down – as he breathed heavily through his rotten teeth and hairy nose.

Then he said it.

“Ma’am I’m here to install your new lighting fixture. Do you think you could cover up and compose yourself before I come in?”

Are you fucking kidding me, dillhole?

No … seriously. Who says something like that? Cover up? I was more covered than I would have been had I been wearing clothes. And compose myself? I’m sorry. I am not screaming and crying. My hair looks fine. And I’m almost completely made up. COMPOSE MYSELF MOTHERFUCKER?!

That’s not what I said, though. No … this special breed of dillhole, douchesausage gargoyle needs a special response. Fortunately, my whit was sharp as a tack today, so I knew exactly how such a prude would easily be offended.

And I can’t say for sure, but I’m pretty sure he was. He didn’t say much more to me the rest of the time, except that it would in fact be raising our electric bill.

What did I say faithful blog followers when this special gentleman asked me to “cover up and compose” myself?

“Hah! Sorry, I thought you were the regular building maintenance man, here for my weekly schticking. If you see him on your way out, let him know I’m ready for some of his Italian stallion.” 

And then I walked back to finish putting on my make up while he installed the new lighting.

Further Facebook Failures

Almost anyone that has blogged has posted – at least once – about Facebook. It’s a part of our daily stream of consciousness; and moreover, it’s a relevant topic. I’ve posted about it at least twice, maybe three times. My favorite was about how Zuckerberg’s got us all by the balls.

Today I woke up pretty early and, in doing so, killed my early-morning hours doing what I do best when riddled with insomnia: I dicked around on Facebook. Different today, though, was that I noticed some new trends in the failure posts. You’ve all experienced them – the half-naked pictures, the baby bump photos, the 7,000 shots of the new couple sucking face, the political rants.

As Facebook drudges on and refuses to be overtaken by the competition like Myspace did, there are a new breed of Facebook Failures out there. They are like the evil offspring of the original Facebook Failures. Mutant Facebookers that seem to be there just to piss me off.

#1 People that get mad because you use Facebook differently than they do

Nothing roasts my fanny more than when someone gets annoyed or makes some bitchy comment because you have used Facebook differently than they do.

I don’t like political posters, and it is very infrequent that I post anything relative to politics. Having worked in politics for two years, I have had my fair share of rants and propaganda and debates to last a lifetime. That said, I don’t begrudge others for posting political stuff if they want to. That whole Chick Fil A thing got a little old after a while, but to each his own, right? Wrong. The political posters always have to bag on other people for not posting about politics. A guy I met at a local writers group a while ago had to be removed from my friends list, simply because I couldn’t take him bitching at me about the fact that my posts didn’t “relate to what is going on in politics and the world.”

Everyone uses Facebook differently. The next time you want to judge someone for the way they use Facebook, think about the fact that everyone is on there for a different reason.

#2 The Grammar Police

I’m just as much of a grammar and punctuation Nazi as the next person, but by the same token I don’t go trolling around the Internet correcting people’s “I”s and “me”s just to make myself feel smart.

For real faithful blog followers, what is it about the Internet that made people such dicks? Not everyone is on the same intellectual plane. Not everyone had the same level of education. Not everyone takes the time to correct autocorrect. Not everyone is as worried about “they’re,” “their,” or “there.” Do they look like a fool with minimal ability to speak or write properly? Of course they do. Do the people that have to point out every single, cotton-pickin’ grammar faux pas – as if their understanding of the English language is far superior to any of the rest of us underlings – look just as stupid as the person that typed out “me” instead of “I” in a Facebook status? ABSO-FUCKING-LUTELY.

#3 #Hashtaggers

Facebook does not utilize hashtag technology like Twitter and Instagram do. Facebook does not have a “search” function for people to search popular public updates about #swaglife #baller #nerdychic and #all#other#miscellaneous#bullshit#people#hashtag.

The only exception to this is if your Twitter and Facebook are linked.

There is absolutely no reason to hashtag (or, the symbol’s official title – octothorp) on Facebook. This reminds me of when people started using the “at” symbol in front of people’s names to identify them. Neither is cool. The next time you go to @soandso or octothorp something, remember how ridiculous you look.

#4 People that turn your status into something about them; and then derail the conversation 30 or 40 comments down into being about their own life

Ugh. This is so annoying.

I’m not talking about people that relate to your post. “Oh we had this just happen to us. Good luck!” and all those canned niceties people comment with on Facebook. I’m not talking about Facebook updates that inspire conversation relevant to the post that involve a lot of comments.

I’m talking about the people that somehow turn your post into their post, about something entirely different, and then have a 30 or 40 comment discussion on your post about their life.

I’ve always wanted to interrupt these little, narcissistic diatribes with a “thanks for being supportive of me by talking all about yourself!” but have never had the balls to. I have, however, had the balls to post this eCard:

#5 The “come to my event”ers that don’t come to yours, and then complain when people invite them to things

I’m not just talking about realtime events, as in in-person ones; I’m talking about online ones and “shows of support” as well. This is a real pet peeve of mine at this point, simply because (as I’ve said before) when I go out of my way to “like” people’s pages, support people’s causes, share words of encouragement on people’s event walls, and even vote for things when they ask me to vote, it would be so awesome if I could just get the same courtesy in return. I talked about it just last week in my post about blog blunders. It goes the same for Facebook Failures.

What makes matters worse, though, is that these Facebook Failures don’t just reply “decline” to like your page, or just ignore your request altogether. They post updates that they hate when people invite them to events on Facebook that are not realtime events. Then a couple weeks later they invite you to a “vote for my kid contest” or a “support my cause” event. Seriously motherfucker?

I suppose a lot of this boils down to the real issue Facebook and the Internet in general brings about, which is a growing worldwide narcissism. It’s all about me, me, more me, with a side of me. To some degree that’s okay; but I think these five Facebook Failures show how too much “me” is not a good thing.

On that note, why don’t you all click on the Top Mommy Blogs banner here to vote for my blog. All you have to do is click that picture and you’ve voted. And when I post on Facebook about how my ranking went up and some asshole derails the conversation into being about them, maybe that time I’ll have the balls to finally tell them to shut the hell up. Something we should all do.

My Day With the Local-Yocals

My husband always tells me that I look at the negative side of things. My response is typically “well, what positives can YOU find?!” – but then I invariably go back into the deep caverns of my self-conscious brain and wonder if that’s really true. Am I really a terribly negative person? Or am I what I think I am – painstakingly realistic? Honest? Blunt?

I don’t want any of you to answer any of those questions. What I do want you to answer, though, is whether or not you find anything positive in my day with the local-yocals.

The Photographer

It started with another phone call to the photographer that took our family photos almost a month ago. She was not too terribly impressive: late for everything with a lame excuse, no assistant, and despite the fact that we talked about taking “photojournalism”-style photographs, all we got were crappy portraits. Despite that, though, I decided to buy some prints of the few shots we liked – just so that we could have a couple and move on with a new photographer in a few months. I turned over my check for $305.66 and she promised they would be in no later than two weeks.

This morning – almost four weeks later – I had still not heard from her. After two weeks I started calling, to receive no response. I emailed and that was ignored as well. Today I decided enough is enough and so I called the local branch of the Better Business Bureau, who stated the following: “You should file a complaint with us and a small claims court action as well. I can legally tell you right now as well that the particular business you just mentioned is currently undergoing other legal action.”

So in other words, we are not the first ones to be scammed. Support local photographers my ass – from now on I’m either going to JCPenny or doing it myself (oddly enough, last year I did our family photos myself and they looked a thousand times better than the proofs this clod showed me).

The Dentist

As we went along on our day, little Pookie had to have sealants put on her permanent molars. I knew she would be finicky about it, mainly because she is always finicky about those types of things. We went; she took a stuffed bear; she was a little traumatized but not too bad.

Until we got home and one of the goddamned sealants fell out.

Rather, it started to chip off. I thought to myself for $63 a piece, you’d think the goddamned things would at least last until tomorrow. Apparently my suspicions were correct about this dentist: that they are slightly incompetent and most of what they care about is the bottom line dollar amount you are paying. What did they say when I called? “Oh, we’ll just fix it at her next visit.” So if it could have waited until the next visit, then what the fuck was the rush to get her in now?

I will never forget our first visit there: they wouldn’t allow me to go in the room with Pookie because they wanted to “get her used to it” and they added on over $400 worth of dental stuff in my absence. When I asked if I could pay the majority and then pay the remainder in a second payment within the month (just a little underprepared for such an hefty bill), they said “that isn’t an option.” So I told them the next time that I needed them to let me know exactly what they were doing, and told them “no” to an extra set of x-rays that seemed superfluous. While I was waiting for the dentist in her office a little later to give me the update, I overheard the hygienist I said “no” to saying to another hygienist “if people aren’t going to take care of their children and get them everything they need, they shouldn’t be having children.”

What’s that you say, ma’am?

The Sneezer

So as our day proceeded and I became more and more jaded, I got hungry so decided to say “screw it all” and have Taco Tuesday for lunch instead of dinner. This of course meant dinner was going to become an issue, but at that point I didn’t give two shits about any of it.

We went to my favorite taco place and I ordered the #2: two potato tacos with a side of rice and chips with salsa. As I finished off my tacos and started to work on my rice, a man walked over to near our table to fill his drink. As he neared us, though, he turned to our table, leaned over my plate, and sneezed directly into my remaining food.

I have never ever seen anything like that happen before in my life.

We sat there, completely horrified for a moment; and then I gathered our stuff and we left. On our way out, I noticed a woman leaning over her little bastard kid, who was hanging on one of the banisters that keeps the line in order. She said to the little, hanging shit as we walked by: “now you should stop doing that, because if you fall you might get hurt and that would make me sad because you wouldn’t feel good; and that would make them sad because they’d have to pay us a lot of money.”

Are you fucking kidding me? It was then that I realized this place is full of nothing but local-yocals.

The Light at the End of Today’s Tunnel

At the end of this terrible terrible tunnel, there is a light. While practicing tennis this afternoon, one of my friends texted me and asked if I wanted to dinner tonight with them. Since my husband is going to be pretty late, I jumped at the opportunity to end this horrible day with good food and friends. And, of course, wine.

See? I can find the positive in things…

It’s time to pretend like the local-yocals don’t exist and bury myself in my Chicagoan-made thin crust pizza (entirely from scratch, I will add); the delicious appetizers that will be arriving any minute; a good salad; and, of course, some wine.

Am I just a Negative Nelly, faithful blog followers? Or was my day with the local-yocals just a tad bit stupid?

Dining at its Finest

Photo Credit Alice@96.5

Hey you over there!  Yeah, you!  The complete douche in this restaurant, sitting at a table on his cell phone … you!  The guy that is talking so loud I can hear the entire conversation; yeah, you know who you are.  I actually feel like we have known each other for years at this point.  I’m so sorry to hear that the merger at your all-important company fell through, but I’m elated to hear that your wife is pregnant with twins after three years of unsuccessful attempts to cool down those spermies.  Such news must be truly important if it has to occur in such a time, at such a place, and in such a manner as to ruin everyone else’s meal.  Across the restaurant there is another guy sitting on his cell phone too – although he is elderly and appears to not realize that cell phone etiquette does exist.  Is there a “who can talk on their cell phone the loudest” competition going on that I was made unaware of?  Had I known I would have certainly entered it myself by talking for thirty-plus minutes, as loudly and obnoxiously as possible, in this fine establishment, attempting to ruin everyone else’s meals.

Photocredit ChildfreeChic

Oh look!  Your friends came to let their children run wild, screaming and stamping on other people’s feet, while you continue your conversation and just use the loudness of the children as a reason to talk even louder.  And I see they’ve brought their baby as well.  I suppose this means the baby is going to scream and cry the entire time and spit food all over the place.  Maybe (if we’re lucky) its parents will talk about what kind of diaper they changed before coming in; or the mother will accidentally squirt us with her breast milk when she goes to feed the kid as she wolfs down her All-Star Grand Slam breakfast.  I tell you that the last time that happened to me (four months ago at a Souplantation), I just really enjoyed tasting my soup and salad return to my mouth at the realization that a complete stranger had squirted breast milk on my hand.

I think you all get the point by now.  I don’t know what it is, but almost every time I go out to eat I encounter either one or both of the scenarios above (which is frequent … you all know my policy on slaving in the kitchen, not to mention the sheer reality of the fact that a healthy meal, which is also tasty, is cheaper bought in a restaurant with healthy standards, rather than made at home).  Maybe it’s where I’m going, although it seems to happen everywhere.  Perhaps the real problem is that people around the country are realizing that the rising cost of groceries and healthy options at a realistic price doesn’t beat all the “kids eat free”/”happy hour” options there are available now.

Or maybe it’s just that the world is full of people that think they are the center of the world; people that feel that they are entitled to have loud cell phone conversations wherever they want.  People that really think it is acceptable to talk on the phone while having dinner with you, making you wait while they have their conversation that is so much more important than you.  I’ve got one for you, obnoxious cell phone user:  how about you have dinner with the person on the phone instead of me, if the conversation is so much more important?  Maybe the world is full of people that think the cost of their meal includes daycare, or people that think that because they talk about dirty diapers and breast milk all the time, that must mean that everyone wants to talk about dirty diapers and breast milk all the time.

Here’s the deal:  no one wants any of that.  When the majority of people go out to eat, it’s for a relaxing time.  It is not to be bothered by cell phone calls, to be treated like a cell phone call is more important than their company; it is not to babysit your children or be stepped on or disgusted.  It just isn’t any of it.  I challenge you all to consider how your dining experience affects others the next time you go out to eat – maybe you won’t let your kid run around wild, or be so quick to answer that all-important phone call.  9.5 out of 10 calls can wait for twenty minutes until you get the bill, anyway.